


L'île de deuxième chance

by Inell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Erotica, F/F, Femslash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Ladies Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-05
Updated: 2007-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 06:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10781454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: It was meant to be a short holiday from a stressful situation. Instead of simply finding escape, though, Pansy ends up finding herself and learning that second chances are precious.





	L'île de deuxième chance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: [](http://community.livejournal.com/hpvalensmut/profile)[**hpvalensmut**](http://community.livejournal.com/hpvalensmut/) fic for [](http://nightfalltwen.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nightfalltwen.livejournal.com/)**nightfalltwen**. Also, I just wanted to say that I'm really, really pleased with how this fic turned out. I hope some of y'all enjoy it! Also, the translation came from google, so I hope it's accurate. 'The Island of Second Chances'.  


* * *

The island is beautiful. Lush and tropic, it fills every fantasy of a paradise far away from prying eyes. Pansy finds it a welcome sanctuary from England, where the reporters want to know personal details and are absolutely gleeful about splashing the news of her separation and subsequent hurried divorce across the front pages of their magazines and newspapers. She hasn’t been able to look at one for months without seeing Theodore and his trollop posing with large smiles and her ample bosoms barely concealed in expensive dresses bought with Pansy's money. Pansy is now known as the Ice Queen, the frigid bitch that drove her poor husband into the arms of another woman. The variety of reasons that spill from Theo’s lips as easily as all the other lies is staggering, and all designed to conceal that it was really only that she refused to indulge in whatever kinky scenario he thought up from day to day.

She has no interest in playing the part of victim, but she abhors being cast as a villain when he’s a complete bastard who gives all men a bad name. To think that she’d actually allowed herself to care for him just added insult to injury. She’s a fool, obviously, and has been reminded exactly why it’s best not to ever let anyone in. It’s a lesson she should have learned years ago with Draco, but the circumstances then were out of their control. His death killed a small part of her, and Theodore seemed the best replacement because he didn’t want anything from her except her inheritance and name, which hadn't been soiled by association like so many others during the war.

Now, she doesn’t even have that unsullied reputation left; 'Parkinson' has become synonymous with 'frigid villains who care more for money and power than loving husbands', apparently. It would become known as far worse if she ever dared to let go of her infamous control and just let the bastard have everything he deserves in the press, where he's taken their fight in an attempt to get more money from her. It won’t work, of course. She’s been engaged to one Death Eater, and been the daughter of another, and still has managed to rise from that with grace and her head held high. An adulterous money-hungry former husband doesn’t have a bloody chance in hell of ruining her, no matter what lies he tells.

This holiday is needed, though, because she knows she’s close to crumbling. If she falls apart, she’d rather it be far away from England in a place where no one knows her at all. She didn't know where to go that wasn't one of the places Theodore would know to find her and send the press trolling, but Fleur knew that this island was exactly what she needed, and, for once, Pansy has taken the advice of her unexpected friend. Fleur is one of the very few people that she trusts, after all, despite her being married to one of those Weasley gits, so when Fleur told her of a place that was hidden from public knowledge, where she could get away and things might start to improve, she grasped at the chance. It’s been a relief to find out that the island is exactly as promised, an oasis from a storm that has left her feeling rather wrecked.

In the five days since she arrived, she has slept late and idled around without once hearing ‘Pansy Parkinson-Nott, just one more question!’. There have been several swims in the ocean, simply splashing about in the crystal clear blue water and feeling the sun beaming down on her pale skin until she nearly burns. There is a village on the island, natives and foreigners who now call this place home instead of just escape. There's a market with fresh fruits and trinkets that shine in the lazy afternoon sunlight, along wtih a couple of restaurants that tempt with the scent of good food, a few other shops selling everything from bathing costumes to potions, and a small ship yard where fishermen arrive every afternoon with the day’s catch. She has explored those areas, but hasn’t yet ventured off the known path to see the ruins that lie deep in the forest or the waterfalls that she hears about from the staff. Soon, maybe, she’ll be ready to make her own path.

There has even been polite conversation with a bunch of strangers who don’t know her from Adam, which is some of the first actual uncomplicated contact she’s had with people since the media circus began. It’s just like Theodore to hire people to get close to her, after all, in an attempt to get a good settlement, so she can't trust strangers or friends at home. Their divorce is final, judgment in her favor considering his adultery is all over the newspapers, but the amount she might have to pay to make him just finally go away is yet to be determined. She’s near a point of just giving him whatever it takes, but hates the idea of letting him win, so she's waiting for the court to decide.

Here, though, no one’s even heard of Theodore Nott. Most of them speak broken English with accents from a dozen different countries. They, too, seek escape from whatever troubles them in their real existence, she thinks. The island seems to be a place for lost souls, which she finds comforting, really. It’s probably ironic that she actually feels as if she belongs here in the middle of nowhere on an uncharted magical island that most don’t even know exists. She doesn’t know how Fleur heard about it, but it seems to be one of those places that’s only known to those who need to know. Such things confuse her, but she doesn’t understand how magic works; that's a topic of advanced study she's never pursued and never needed to think about. She has the talent, and uses it, and the science of it is outside her interest.

She takes her glass of wine out onto her balcony and sits to watch the sunset. Her attention wanders away from the sky to rest on the small cottage that sits nearly hidden in the trees beyond the edge of the resort where she’s staying. From what she can tell, most people live in the village in nicely made huts and open cottages that are neatly arranged amongst the businesses; therefore, the house has intrigued her since she first noticed it between the trees. It’s a rather long walk to reach it, past a rocky bit of beach if one approaches that way or through the thick wood if one goes the other.

Whoever lives there obviously wants privacy, as it’s difficult to make out the house at all unless you happen to know to look. She didn’t notice it until the sunlight caught on the glass when she was watching the sunset her second night on the island. When she asked the man who brings her breakfast in the morning, he spoke in a hybrid of Spanish and French that she couldn’t possibly follow as he gestured in a way that told her to not continue the line of inquiry. She was only able to make out the words Loco Femme, which she thinks means ‘crazy lady’. Regardless, he’s been quite clear that she is to not bother this person and should, instead, go swim until her pale skin is not so white anymore.

Of course, being told _not_ to dwell upon it means that her mind has wandered to that little cottage far more than it would if she simply knew about it. She considers going to investigate it, just to see if it’s occupied or empty, but hasn’t made the effort yet. It’s not a short walk, after all, and she might prefer for it to remain unknown so that she can concoct various possibilities in her mind instead of knowing the most likely boring truth. Some eccentric widow, perhaps, or a romantic couple who wants privacy for their intimate acts are probably more in line with reality. Neither of those choices is at all interesting.

The sunset is gorgeous. The sky has more colors than she can even describe. It’s time like this that she wishes she had a poetic bone in her body, because this is a moment when such lyrical thoughts would come in handy. Instead, she looks at the sun slowly moving behind the ocean and sips her wine while idly kicking her foot. Her gaze drifts to the cottage unconsciously, and she sits up a little straighter when she notices the glinting glass of a window being opened. She’s too far to see anyone, unfortunately, but there’s definitely someone there. Pansy sighs and looks back at the sky. This is definitely a place where magic happens.

**********

On the seventh day, Pansy finally gives in to her curiosity. There’s an owl from Fleur that morning that asks if she’s enjoying herself and suggesting that she not return quite yet. Theodore is up to his usual antics, it seems, and it’s best that she not be there until his latest efforts fail. She doesn’t know what he’s done this time that makes even open-minded Fleur call him loathsome, but she can imagine all too well. It will only ruin him, though, and she’s just too tired of living a life that isn’t her own to worry anymore.

Her stay on the island has forced her to acknowledge that she has no idea who she really is now. There are parts of her that are still the scared seventeen year old clinging onto a dream of happily ever after with her gorgeous prince. The prince is long dead, and she’s approaching thirty-three, so it’s time to let that silly dream go. Without it, though, she has nothing except a decade wasted as the wife of a man who didn’t arouse her and used her for money and connections. Perhaps the dead prince is the better one to remember, she thinks wryly.

It’s been easy to lose sight of herself, though, as she has spent her years trying to deal with Theodore’s growing ego and increasingly risqué demands. Sex has never appealed to her particularly, and he certainly hasn’t ever caused the desire to be daring or do the kinky things he wants. She very well might be frigid if that means having no wish to have him penetrate her bum or call her awful names while he spanks her. When he tried the latter, in fact, she hexed him so terribly that he couldn’t even get aroused for a month. She smiles slightly at the memory and wonders if that could have been the beginning of the end.

Now, he’s gone, and she’s alone. Her life is her own for the first time ever, really, and she finds that thought frightening. What if she doesn’t like the person she really is beneath years of resentment and bitterness? She’s never been warm, except with Draco, so the cold is familiar and comfortable. There’s never been anyone who makes her want more, so what if there never is? Can she live her life alone without ever again feeling what she did when she was a silly teenager? These thoughts weigh heavily on her mind, so the curiosity about the cottage is a needed distraction.

It’s a longer walk than she expects. The sun is too hot, and she’s sweating terribly by the time she reaches the trees. Her shirt sticks to her back, damp cotton rubbing against her sunburned skin, and her hair is wet and clinging to her forehead and cheeks. She just knows that her face is red from the sun because she can feel the warmth in her cheeks. She must look even more atrocious than usual, but it’s not like anyone here really cares. As far as she can tell, she’s alone in this forest, so she wipes her face with the hem of her shirt and keeps walking.

Each step closer makes her a little more excited, which makes her roll her eyes at how boring her life has become. It’s better than pretending that each new headline isn’t like another knife in her back, though, or keeping the polite cold smile on her face whenever she goes out in public or ignoring the whispers and laughter that follow her everywhere these days. She can’t go anywhere in Wizarding Britain, it seems, without facing ridicule or pity, two things that she hates. No, she’d rather anticipate finding a rundown cottage owned by a dotty old witch in the middle of an island forest than deal with that, she knows.

She walks for awhile, headed in what she thinks should be the right direction, before she hears the sound of water. It’s coming from nearby, so she follows the sound until she stumbles upon a small lagoon with a pretty waterfall. The beauty surprises her for a moment, and she doesn’t even notice the figure swimming at first. When she becomes aware of the person in the lagoon, she steps closer and hides behind a large blooming plant. It’s a woman, she determines, and her skin grows even warmer as the swimmer stands beneath the waterfall with her back towards Pansy.

The water cascades down a bronzed back and drips along the soft curve of the woman’s backside as Pansy watches. Her hair is long and brown, falling down her back in wet curls. When she moves, her hair falls forward and there’s a flash of faint scars on that gorgeous tan skin. Pansy knows it’s wrong to spy on a naked stranger, but, really, it’s a public place and it’s not _her_ fault this woman is bathing where anyone could stumble upon her. Still, she’s glad for the protection that the plant gives her because she doesn’t want to be seen. Not only is it improper, but this is another woman, which means Pansy shouldn’t feel this way about watching. She can’t look away, though, and is aware enough of her own body to reluctantly admit that the warmth she feels isn’t just because of the sun.

The woman ducks back beneath the water and disappears from sight before she suddenly emerges like an offering to the sun above. Her breasts are full and bounce slightly as she tosses her head back, and Pansy can’t look away from them as she notices the hard nipples and large areolas that cover the tip of her breasts. She’s close enough to see the tight buds and dark rose color that blends into the golden skin glistening with water. The woman has curvy hips and a slight swell of a tummy that’s barely noticeable. Pansy notices, though, along with the freckles that are lightly scattered over her belly and the dark curls between her legs that are just a bit wild and unkempt above soft pink that’s wet from the lagoon and visible with each step as the woman walks closer to the shore.

She blinks and tears her gaze away from places she shouldn’t be looking. What’s happening to her? Is she so undersexed that she’s now spying and ogling naked women? She’s never noticed a woman in that way before, and she’s certainly never been warm with arousal from looking at breasts and glistening pink skin covered with coarse curls. Not that she’s ever actually _seen_ another woman in such a way beyond glimpses of her dormmates back at Hogwarts many years ago. Still, she never once had an urge to look more closely at any of them, so she can’t possibly be turned on by another woman. It’s just wrong and inappropriate, isn’t it?

“Is someone there?”

The voice is English and demanding with a touch of shrillness that seems familiar. Pansy looks away from the full breasts and finds herself staring at a face that she hasn’t seen in years. Her eyes widen in shock, and she takes a step back involuntarily. Oh bloody hell. It’s Granger.

The implications of having damp knickers from ogling bloody _Granger_ are something she refuses to think about right now. This situation has gone from improper to awkward to humiliating all with three words. She's tempted to turn and run before she’s seen because, really, what are the chances that Granger would ever realize who it was spying on her? Of course, Granger would probably petrify her before she could take a step, and that would just be even more embarrassing. She wonders if she can just Disapparate back to her hotel room, where she can take a shower and _not_ think about bouncing breasts and freckles in inappropriate places.

“I know you’re there,” Granger says in that bossy tone that reminds Pansy of Prefect duty and being told to focus on her schoolwork. There’s something else there now, though Pansy can’t quite figure out what. She sounds tired, weary perhaps, and Pansy suddenly remembers the last time she saw Granger. Old beyond her years, even then, and life certainly hadn’t rewarded her for wasting her youth fighting the war against Voldemort, had it? The image comes to mind of a pretty face that looks exhausted but still has a strength that’s visible from the grainy photo in the newspaper. That was years ago, taken at a funeral that was the reason it had been front page news, and it was the last anyone had seen or heard from Granger in the, goodness, eight years since.

Running away has never been Pansy’s style before, but, in this moment, she feels embarrassed, uncertain, and certain that it’s best to avoid a confrontation that will do neither of them any good. If Granger has chosen this place as her escape, Pansy’s mature enough now to respect that. She knows what it’s like to want peace, after all, and to just forget about the past and the never-will-bes. Besides, she has no intention of admitting that she spied on Granger, of all people, and still keeps sneaking looks at those full breasts. So, she straightens her shoulders, lets out a breath she isn’t even aware she’s holding, and Disapparates back to her hotel room without being caught.

When she arrives, she immediately strips and goes straight to her shower. The water is cold against her heated skin, and she bites her lip hard as she rests one palm against the wall and pushes two fingers inside of her with the other. Her eyes are closed and she thinks about golden skin and round breasts, of licking dark nipples and tracing freckles with her tongue, of coarse curls against her face and wetness against her tongue. She shudders as she comes, whimpering softly as her body shudders and she tightens around her fingers.

After she pulls her fingers out of her, she stares in shock at the floor of the shower, watching the water circle the drain before disappearing. What has she done? She begins to breathe heavily, sucking in gasps of breath as she hyperventilates at the realization that she’s just come at the thought of being with another woman. No, not just any woman, but Granger, which somehow makes it more of a confusing nightmare. She doesn’t like women, isn’t attracted to them, and this is all just a horrible mistake. It has to be, she tells herself as she slides down to sit on the floor and closes her eyes, letting the spray of the shower wash away the evidence of her loss of control.

*******

In the two days since the Incident, as Pansy has taken to calling it complete with capitalization, she has done her best to think about anything other than Granger and Granger’s breasts. It’s not as easy as she hopes, but an owl from her solicitor with word that Theodore has announced that his trollop is pregnant gives her something to focus on. For years, she tried to have a baby but it had never happened. Now, his slag is expecting, and she concludes this proves that she was the reason they couldn’t have a child. She’s glad they never did, of course, because having a child mixed up in this mess would make it even worse, but it’s just another in a long list of failures that weighs down on her.

She sends a reply asking for the decision to be hastened because she has no intention of supporting Theodore’s child, which she assumes will somehow become the next hurdle in ever resolving this matter. He would have been smart to go after Daphne Greengrass, who has been gagging for him since they were teenagers, instead of a twenty-two year old pub worker without a penny to her name. Of course, no one has ever accused Theodore of being highly intelligent. She can hear Draco muttering about Theo and his stupidity often, causing a sad smile as she wonders again how life would have been different if Draco had survived the war. A part of her thinks that the reality would never have been the dream, though, and she somehow doubts they’d have made it any better than she and Theodore. It’s a sad truth, but this island seems to make her inclined to admit things she has long denied.

A knock on her door interrupts her thoughts of various curses that she could use on Theodore. She’d never actually do anything because that would just be admitting that he’s managed to get to her, but it doesn’t mean she can’t think up elaborate ways of torturing the git. She assumes it’s her breakfast, which she always takes in her room in the morning, so she opens the door expecting to see the odd little hunchback man who usually brings it. Instead, she finds herself looking into the brown eyes of a woman who has haunted her thoughts the past two days.

“Parkinson?” Granger looks surprised to see her but manages to conceal it beneath a cool mask easily enough. “You’re Fleur’s friend?”

Pansy blinks at her and feels her cheeks becoming warm as she shifts in place by the door. Surely Granger has figured out somehow that she was the spy and has now come to humiliate her properly. Why else would she be here? The mention of Fleur catches her off-guard, though. She nods and coolly replies, “Yes, I am. What are _you_ doing here, Granger?”

“It seems that Fleur’s taste isn’t as impeccable as she claims,” Granger mutters in a cross tone before she glances down the hall as if coveting escape. Pansy tenses at the insult, but bites her tongue to keep from replying sharply. It doesn’t do to be emotional, after all. That simply allows an easy victory, she has learned from Theodore. Granger looks back at her and straightens her shoulders, which causes the material of her shirt to tighten across her breasts. Pansy’s gaze drops and her flush increases before she forces herself to look back at Granger, who now looks slightly amused and confused.

“Well, what is it?” she snaps, reaching up to brush her hair away from her cheek.

“Fleur asked me to show a friend of hers the ruins,” Granger says simply. “I agreed, so get ready so we can leave before it starts getting too hot.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to go anywhere with you and certainly not to hike about in the heat to see broken buildings.”

“Fleur says, and I quote, ‘My friend ees ‘aving a bad time of eet wit a ‘orrible ex-‘usband and awful deevorce. Please show ‘er the ruins as I know they will make ‘er feel better, ‘ermione. Promise me this one favor, oui?’ If you wish to write her back explaining why you failed to appreciate her generosity and forced me to break my promise, I don’t really care, but, otherwise, go change into something more appropriate so we can go see the ruins, Princess.”

Granger is still an annoying, shrill, bossy bint who refuses to listen to any protests against her plans, Pansy decides with a scowl. And she’s going to kill Fleur whenever she sees her again, too, because there was no need at all to involve Granger in her attempts to escape and relax. At least now she'll have some variety in whom she'll target with her imagined creative methods of elimination. How anyone could think being bossed around and called Princess in that condescending manner by Granger could make her feel better, she’ll never understand. However, Fleur has been one of her only friends for years, and Pansy doesn’t like the idea of having to explain exactly why being led around by Granger and her bouncing breasts bothers her.

“Fine,” she finally spits, glaring just enough to show Granger that she’s not at all happy about this before she turns to go change. “And don’t call me Princess.” The latter is met with a snort by Granger, which earns her another glare over the shoulder. Pansy turns back around quickly because looking at Granger too long makes it too tempting to stare at the bits she studied so closely while they were naked. Granger is wearing khaki trousers and a loose shirt, so Pansy dresses similarly. Her robes have remained in the wardrobe since arriving, far too hot for this climate, and she’s glad that she brought along other clothes, too.

When she puts on lip gloss and a bit of blush to her cheeks, she tells herself that it’s because she needs to look presentable when there’s a chance of being seen and it’s not to impress Granger at all. She still hasn’t wrapped her mind around the idea that she experienced an attraction to another woman, after all, so it’s best to just forget about it and claim a lapse of judgment due to the heat. It’s only fair to blame the island when it has to have influenced her behavior in some way. Once her hair is glossy and falls around her face in a way that’s pretty, or at least passable, she goes back into the other room.

Breakfast has arrived, and Granger is drinking a cup of coffee. Her hair is pulled back into a loose braid and bits of it are trying to escape, which Pansy thinks sort of describes Granger, in a way. Always a bit wild, even while trying to fit in and never conforming based on what others expected. She doesn’t like her at all, not that she really knows her from more than memories from Hogwarts. Her personality is still abrasive and she’s rude, bossy, and too smug. It's highly annoying.

“Granger, why don’t you help yourself to a cup of coffee,” she drawls, belatedly embarrassed that she seems to have fallen back into being a snotty teenager instead of a mature woman who finds such behavior obnoxious.

“Thank you, I think I will,” Granger says dryly, flicking her gaze over Pansy before she stands and puts down her cup. “You can’t Apparate to the ruins, so we have to walk. Make sure you have comfortable shoes or you’ll be whining in no time.”

“I’m not a child,” Pansy points out, ignoring the obvious truth that she's acting rather like one around this woman. Granger doesn’t answer, just arches a brow and nods towards the door.

They leave the hotel and start the hike in silence. Pansy uses the time to get her thoughts under control and to study her companion. Granger is prettier than she remembers, but it’s very natural and not overly noticeable unless you’re really looking. Perhaps she just never bothered to look before? When she realizes she’s thinking about Granger too much, she thinks about Theodore and babies and slags, which makes her scowl and feel like hitting something.

“It will take about an hour to reach the ruins,” Granger says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. “The Minichi made their home in the middle of the island, though there have also been signs of settlements on the coast. Fishing was the most common source of food and profession, if you will, so it’s reasonable to assume that there were some who lived on the water to supply food to the city proper.”

“They were magical, weren’t they?” Pansy asks, doing her best not to sound too curious.

“Yes, they were, but they didn’t use wands that many centuries ago in this land,” Granger replies. She begins to describe the culture of the primitive magical tribe, giving far more detail than Pansy really cares to hear, but it makes the time pass. Besides, Granger has always been smart so it’s at least abstractly interesting to hear what she knows about the island she’s chosen as her hiding place from the world.

By the time they reach the ruins, they’re having a civil conversation about the Minichi and old magic, and the hour has gone by quickly. The ruins are rather magnificent, even if Pansy thinks they’re a bunch of old rocks and broken stones. They’re the only ones there, which makes it easier to look at their leisure. Granger continues her role as tour guide, sounding as if she’s probably had to do this before for other visitors, and it’s actually fascinating to listen to stories about the people who first called this beautiful island home.

*******

The walk back goes much faster due to general conversation about what they’ve seen during their tour. Granger isn’t nearly so bad when she’s in this ‘instruction’ mode, though Pansy wonders if maybe she uses it as a way to distance herself from anything personal. Pansy uses cool stares and slight sneers to keep people from getting close, after all, so it occurs to her that maybe this matter-of-fact lesson giving is Granger’s version of a sneer. If so, it works because there’s no opportunity to mention anything personal in a casual way. ‘Why, yes, the Minichi did have an interesting trade approach. By the way, how long have you been hiding on this island?’ is just far too obvious, so Pansy learns nothing to answer several of the questions that have formed in her mind since her spying in the woods.

When they reach the hotel, she stares at Granger. Before she can stop herself, she asks, “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

Granger stares back, studying her intently and finally nods. “Lunch sounds good.”

They eat at the hotel restaurant, overlooking the ocean. The food is good but the conversation is awkward. There’s only so much anyone can say or listen to about historical tribes before a new topic is necessary. Pansy’s life has consisted of society parties, an ex-husband who is the last thing she wants to talk about, and a loneliness that she tries to avoid acknowledging. Granger doesn’t offer personal details or explain why she’s here on this island. Instead, after the uncomfortable silence that is mostly spent trying not to sneak looks at her companion, Pansy mentions Fleur again.

It’s a safe topic, obviously, and one that they both can discuss casually. After finding common ground, of sorts, in their friendship with Fleur, it's only natural that the conversation would move on to other mutual acquaintances. Pansy knows all the latest gossip, of course, and enjoys making Granger’s eyes widen as she imparts her wisdom. This is a topic that she excels at, after all, and it’s Granger’s turn to listen. Unconsciously, Pansy avoids mentioning those closest to Granger. She doesn’t have any interesting gossip on them, so it’s pointless to bring them up. Besides, she has no idea how those relationships stand, if Granger lives here now.

Lunch is long finished and they’re drinking lemonade in the late afternoon sun when she makes Granger laugh. The sound is startling as the most she’s achieved so dar during her dry commentary on the social lives of their former classmates has been a slight quirk of a smile from the other woman. It’s a story about Colin Creevey, lace stockings, and photographs that causes the laugh. Pansy sits back in her chair and watches Granger, noticing that she looks younger when she’s laughing and that the lines around her eyes and mouth are relaxed.

“The poor boy needs to learn that silk is likely to get runs when handled roughly,” Pansy drawls glibly, fascinated by this laughing woman even more than she is by the matter-of-fact serious one who has been her companion most of the day.

Granger shakes her head slightly and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s not that,” she says, taking a drink before she sighs and smiles. “Several of the girls in Gryffindor reported missing stockings after laundry was brought back, you see, and now I’ve finally solved that mystery. Perhaps I should be insulted that he never stole one of mine.”

“Simply confirmation that he must have adequate taste,” Pansy says with a slight smirk.

“I’ll have to send an owl to Parvati and Lav to see if they heard that news,” Granger murmurs, ignoring Pansy’s insult. Her smile fades slightly, and she turns to look out at the sea. There’s a shift in mood that leaves Pansy confused because she’s rather pleased at how well things have been going.

“So you’re in touch with people other than Fleur?” Pansy asks, deciding to take the opportunity for personal questions since it was presented.

Granger turns to look at her and arches a brow. “Of course I am,” she says in a tone that makes Pansy feel stupid for asking the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you’re hiding away on this island in a cottage by the sea,” Pansy points out sharply, not at all fond of being considered stupid.

There’s a moment of silence as Granger stares at her intently before she nods once, as if she’s found some answer she’d been seeking. She stands up and shakes her head slightly. “I’m not hiding, Parkinson,” she replies firmly. “Thank you for lunch and an…interesting afternoon.”

Pansy wants to say something but words aren’t her strength so it’s not surprising that they fail her right now. Instead, she sits there and watches Granger walk away, wondering why she suddenly feels even lonelier than before. She finally looks away when Granger disappears from sight, and tries to make sense of what’s just happened and why it matters so much to her.

*********

After a restless night during which masturbation doesn’t even help, Pansy wakes up feeling cross and angry at the world for no longer being what she’s used to. She sends an owl to her solicitor demanding that he get the settlement issue resolved because she’s tired of Theodore dragging her through the mud along with him and his slag and then takes a long shower. It helps relax her somewhat but she tenses immediately when she wanders into the sitting room to find Granger lounging on the sofa with a cup of coffee as if she owns the place.

“The nice little man with your tray let me in,” she says simply when Pansy glares at her and pulls her robe more tightly around her.

“This hotel obviously has issues with privacy. I’ll be writing a letter to the administration,” Pansy declares loftily, finding comfort in the cold, sharp words that sound flat even to her own ears.

Granger has the audacity to smirk, which does little to ease the tension. Considering her sudden departure yesterday and the fact that she seemed to barely tolerate Pansy’s company, it’s more of a surprise to find her sitting there than Pansy wants to let on. She’s curious, though, and Granger knows it, which is utterly galling. Pansy glares again and walks over, sitting down in a way that just happens to let her robe fall away from her legs. She’s not beautiful by any means, and even pretty is probably an exaggeration, but she does have great legs.

“I have to gather ingredients today,” Granger tells her matter-of-factly after a moment of silence. Pansy’s annoyed that she can’t seem to stop staring at Granger’s breasts but the other woman hasn’t even glanced at her bare legs. _Bloody bint_.

“Your point?”

“I thought you’d like to come along.”

“Why would I want to gather ingredients with you? And what ingredients?”

“Because you’re bored sitting around the hotel and your skin just burns instead of tans so you’re limited on how long you can even do that.”

“I am not bored, Granger. That just goes to prove that you’re not always right.”

“Yes, you are or you’d not have bothered to go see the ruins yesterday. It certainly wasn’t my sparkling personality that convinced you, after all.”

“I’ve seen more sparkle on a dull stone.”

“Hence proving my point and thus confirming that I was, indeed, correct despite your initial denial.”

Pansy frowns and wonders how Granger has managed to succeed at being infuriatingly smug once again. “What ingredients?” she asks again.

“I make potions for the shop in the village and also do experiments,” Granger explains somewhat reluctantly. It’s obviously something personal that she doesn’t discuss often.

“You think I’d like to roam around the woods hunting for potion ingredients instead of frolicking in the ocean like someone on holiday?”

Granger slowly smiles and nods her confirmation of that statement. It’s tempting to say no just to prove her wrong but, unfortunately, she’s absolutely right.

“Hmph,” Pansy mutters, sipping her coffee leisurely before she stands. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder and arches a brow. “You’ll wait while I get dressed.”

“Wear trousers and comfortable trainers,” Granger bossily instructs before she picks up a scone and puts it to her mouth.

Pansy rolls her eyes but obeys when she gets dressed. There’s something rather wicked about standing in her bedroom naked while Granger’s in the other room, and, for one daring moment, she considers being bold enough to touch herself while the subject of her recent fantasies sits on the sofa eating a scone and doesn’t have any idea what’s happening, but she can’t bring herself to do so. Perhaps tonight she’ll indulge, she decides, knowing that she’ll add in a private audience of one to watch her when she fantasizes later.

Granger is pacing when Pansy returns to the room, and her hair is even more of a mess than usual. It falls down her back in wild loose curls that don’t seem to have any desire to be restricted. It looks soft, but Pansy doesn’t touch to find out. Instead, she pulls her straight boring hair back and secures it with a clip before following Granger out of the hotel.

Hunting for potion ingredients brings back memories of detention at Hogwarts and of Draco. He used to lay his head on her lap and tell her about potions, his favorite subject, and describe the laboratory he’d build in their house after they were married. It should probably bother her to look back and realize that their future had been decided for them when they were four, but it doesn’t because she never knew anything but Draco then. And she did love him, even at the end when he made horrible decisions because of expectations that he hated and out of a sense of honor that few people respect anymore.

Thinking of Draco brings a sad smile to her lips, and she looks up to find Granger watching her. Instead of lashing out with sharp words and sneers, Pansy meets her gaze and then goes back to picking the herb that is important to making Pepper Up potion. They work quietly until her clothes are damp from sweat and her hands are covered in dirt. She honestly can’t remember the last time she’s actually done such menial work and thinks it very well could have been back at Hogwarts nearly fifteen years ago. She suddenly feels old, pottering around in a garden with ghosts of the past lingering around her like old friends while life just passes her by.

“This is popatwy,” Granger says, interrupting Pansy’s self-pity party.

She looks up to find Granger kneeling by a patch of small white flowers. There’s something in her tone that tells Pansy there’s something significant about what she has just said, but she has no idea what. She moves away from the row of leaves that she’s been picking to get a closer look. “What’s popatwy, besides rather difficult to pronounce?”

Granger’s lips curve into a slight smile but her eyes look old and tired. It’s a contrast that Pansy has noticed more as the day has progressed, and she wonders if it should bother her that she still finds Granger pretty even with dirt on her cheek and that worn out look on her face. She picks one of the flowers and motions for Pansy to open her hand, placing it on Pansy’s palm when she does so. “Popatwy is a very rare ingredient that used to be in several strong healing potions. Due to its rarity, though, it was eventually replaced with more common ingredients that were easier to grow in Britain. This island is one of the very few places where it actually grows wild and rather in abundance during all seasons.”

Pansy shifts her gaze from the flower to Granger’s face. She thinks back to the last time she saw her, the article in the Prophet and the grainy photograph of a funeral, and her words from last night ( _I’m not hiding_ ) echo in her mind. Suddenly, she thinks she understands. “You’re working on a potion.”

“On several, actually,” Granger says quietly. “That little flower is stronger than you could imagine. Here, feel this.” She moves the flower over the curve of Pansy’s palm slowly, dragging the petals over her skin as she leans closer. “Do you feel the texture change? It’s a soothing liquid that the flower emits upon contact.”

“It feels nice,” Pansy murmurs, cheeks flushing slightly as she inhales the scent of cinnamon and vanilla when Granger moves closer. She clears her throat and licks her lips, trying to ignore the sensual feel of the soft petals brushing against her skin. “And you’re trying to use it for a new potion?”

“I am.” Granger blinks at her and moves back, frowning slightly before she looks at the sky. “It’s getting late. I didn’t realize we’d been out here so long. Do you want dinner? At my house?” She focuses on Pansy and shifts slightly as she waits for an answer.

“I’d like to hear more,” Pansy says simply, not specifying more about what because there’re just too many choices.

“Over dinner then.” Granger stands up and gathers the various bags with ingredients before she sets off in a different direction, stopping but not looking back when Pansy catches up with her. Yet again, it feels like something has shifted somehow, and Pansy has no idea what but, this time, she thinks she might eventually be able to figure it out. Granger’s invited her for dinner, after all, and offered something personal without expecting reciprocation.

Their hunt took them further than Pansy had realized. The walk back across the island takes time, but it passes quickly. She spends it thinking about puzzles and watching Granger’s arse as she walks, not bothering to deny any longer that she’s attracted to this woman even if she’d never admit it aloud. When they pass the lagoon and waterfall that started all the confusing thoughts and desires, Pansy blushes and avoids looking at it. Granger glances back at her as they walk by it, and she wonders if she somehow knows it was Pansy spying on her. She doesn’t say anything, though, and turns back around before leading her down a well-walked path that winds around to the cottage by the sea.

The wards around the cottage are incredibly strong. Granger waves her wand in perfect formation as she alters them, allowing Pansy to pass through. The cottage is prettier than she expects with large windows that open up onto the sea and a lot of weathered wood that still looks strong. It suits Granger, she thinks, noticing the small garden and comfortable looking porch swing. The front door is unlocked and standing open when she follows Granger inside, which surprises her.

“With the wards, there’s no need to shut it,” Granger says after noticing her confusion. She takes the bags of ingredients and walks to a room down the hall, leaving Pansy standing in the sitting room thinking about a person who guards their privacy as well as Granger but leaves her front door open. It’s something else that doesn’t make sense to her yet seems to suit this odd creature that fascinates her.

Granger comes back and goes into the small kitchen, washing up before she starts cooking. Pansy looks around curiously, noticing the personal touches that make the cottage feel like a home. A whole wall of photographs catches her attention instantly, but she takes her time to make her way over to it so she doesn’t appear too eager or curious. She recognizes many of the faces in the photos, which have far too much red for her liking. Potter and Weasley look back at her from quite a few, showing their growth from annoying little boys to annoying grown men, and there are others of people she doesn’t know at all.

The ones that she focuses on, though, are of Granger and a beautiful woman she recognizes from her school days. Padma Patil has black hair that seems to shine, whereas Pansy’s just always looks dull, and her complexion is clear with gorgeous golden skin. The photos track a happy life together if the smiles and intimate touches are any indication. She sees a young Granger, obviously during the war, standing with the woman, smiling shyly and looking as if she’s been caught by the photographer. They age as the photos progress, but the smiles don’t fade nor does the love that is quite obvious. Pansy shifts awkwardly when the woman starts to look thinner and her hair loses its shine. When she reaches a photo of Granger holding the woman, who is smiling lovingly up at her, she feels catty for envying her hair when the woman has obviously lost it by that point.

“That was taken a few months before she died.” Granger’s voice is soft and startles Pansy, who didn’t hear her approach. She reaches around Pansy and lightly drags her fingers over the photograph. “Even at the end, she was smiling. She was so strong and brave, you know? It hurt her so badly, the pain just couldn’t be lessened by any magic, and I think she was ready to just let go but she didn’t for so long because she knew I needed her. It was selfish, wanting to keep her even when she was in such agony, but I couldn’t imagine not having her beside me or trying to live without her.”

“I read about it in the Prophet,” Pansy says quietly, not at all sure what one is supposed to say in circumstances such as this. ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ sounded trite.

“Padma would have been annoyed that her death warranted coverage by the newspaper. It was just because of me, and I hated that the reporters couldn’t give us privacy to mourn.” Granger sighs and drops her hand. “It was cancer, a Muggle disease without a cure. They tried to hold it off, did all these tests that were painful and hurt her and then she lost her hair, but it wasn’t enough. Magic couldn’t even make those final days more peaceful, which was the worst part. After she was gone, I started researching ways that could help anyone else who might go through that, and ended up here. That was seven years ago, and it’s been my home since.”

Pansy turns to look at her, words failing her again. Losing Draco was nothing like what Granger had to go through. The idea of watching someone you loved slowly deteriorate and know they were dying but being unable to help sounded like a horrid nightmare. Pansy knows she’s not strong enough to have survived that like Granger has, and she has to acknowledge that she respects her even more for doing so.

“I’m not hiding here, Pansy.” Her name sounds odd when spoken by Granger but she likes it, even with the slight hesitation. “Some people find this island to be an escape from whatever plagues them but it was actually my salvation in a time when it was a struggle to make it through my days alone. I think, in a way, that it provides us with what we need, whether that’s escape, a hiding place, a purpose, or a second chance. You just have to choose what you make of what it offers. Now, dinner is ready, and I have a bottle of wine if you feel so inclined.”

“I’m not hiding, either,” Pansy says, following her to the small table that sits by the kitchen. There’s some sort of fried vegetables and beef in a bowl and two plates with rice set out. It smells very good, so she sits and prepares her plate.

“Then why are you here?” Granger asks bluntly, pouring them a glass of wine before she starts to eat.

Perhaps it’s the wine or maybe it’s the fact that Granger, no, Hermione because she can’t really be Granger now can she, has shared something private with her, but Pansy finds herself telling her about Theodore and the slag and the divorce and the press. Once she starts talking, the words just won’t stop, much to her horror. Several glasses of wine later, her plate is mostly empty and she feels drained, both physically and emotionally. She sits on the sofa staring out the large window at the dark ocean while Hermione tidies the kitchen. When she joins her, Pansy watches her closely, angry at having shared so much and vulnerable because now Hermione has the power to hurt her.

“You should probably go back to the hotel now,” Hermione says quietly.

It’s not what Pansy expects her to say, which makes the anger flare slightly. “What? Now that you’ve found out all the horrid details of my fantastic life, I’m just tossed out before I can even finish my wine?”

“I think you’ve had enough wine, Pansy, and it’s best if you go get some sleep. It’s been a long night for both of us.”

“You’re not my mum, Granger. I can drink however much wine I want.”

“Did you enjoy spying on me?” Hermione asks suddenly, staring at her closely.

Pansy glares at her, hating her for knowing about that and bringing it up now when she’s trying to be angry and get some sort of control back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know it was you. I have since you mentioned my cottage by the sea because, otherwise, how would you know I lived here,” Hermione points out with far too much logic for someone who's had a couple of glasses of wine.

“Do you intend to humiliate me?” Pansy demands, cheeks flushed from anger and embarrassment and even arousal, much to her disgust.

“Not at all. I’m trying to prove a point,” Hermione says in a know-it-all tone that makes her start to become Granger again. “I think that you liked spying on me, if your glances at my chest over the last couple of days are any indication, which means that you need to go back to your hotel now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Pansy hisses, glaring at her and hating her and wanting her until her head starts to spin.

“I’m a lesbian, Pansy,” Hermione says. “I love Padma still, and always will, but she’s been gone for years and I’m still alive. I have no desire for a relationship but I like sex and indulge if an opportunity arises. If you stay and keep looking at me like you’re dying to fuck me, to be perfectly blunt, then I’m not going to be the better person by not taking advantage. The fact that you look scared to death after each time I see you think it is the only reason that I’m telling you that it’s best if you go back to your hotel because you’re confused and obviously not ready for what you want.”

“I---you---“ Pansy gapes at her, face bright red as her lust is discussed as if it’s a school problem that needs an easy solution. She can’t believe she’s been so obvious when she thought she’d managed to conceal it very well. Before she can deny Hermione’s words or protest anything that’s just been said, Hermione leans forward and brushes her lips against Pansy’s.

It’s barely a kiss, just a chaste brush of lips, but it makes her tense automatically. More pressure is applied, and she closes her eyes and clenches her fingers around the stem of the wineglass. She’s too shocked to kiss back, too uncertain, and too scared. The feel of soft lips against hers, of round breasts pressed against her chest, it’s too much.

Hermione pulls back and smiles wryly. “That’s why you need to go back,” she says softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from Pansy’s face.

Pansy blinks at her, wide-eyed and confused, but stands up and runs a shaky hand through her hair. “I, uh, right,” she stammers, feeling horribly awkward and strange. She walks to the door and glances back at Hermione.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Hermione says simply, almost challengingly. “The door’s always open.”

*******

Days later, Pansy still thinks about that night and replays every action she made over and over. If she’d only said this or done that, she thinks, then she’d know. The idea that Hermione (as she’ll _never_ just be Granger again) was right continues to frustrate her, but she doesn’t know what to do. She's scheduled to return to England tomorrow; her portkey is set for two in the afternoon. And she hasn’t seen Hermione since she stumbled out her front door.

The fact that she misses her is ridiculous. They hardly know each other, after all, and their past certainly doesn’t give a reasonable support for nostalgia. It was just two days of gradual thawing and unexplained lust, which doesn’t constitute enough of anything for missing someone. When Pansy walks through town, she sees the potion’s shop that sells Hermione’s potion and she notices the angle of the trees and remembers a story about the Minichi that Hermione told her. Every time she steps onto her balcony, her gaze settles on the cottage, and she finds herself filled with conflicting emotions that frighten her.

An owl from her solicitor arrives after tea with the news that a settlement might have been reached. There’s a meeting scheduled next week, he says, and Theodore will be most displeased if the news is accurate. That thought makes her smirk and feel triumphant. His careless attempt to try their case in the press will end up ruining him, which causes an urge to do a little dance to celebrate. It’s a hollow victory, though, because she’s still alone and the island is no longer a comfortable hiding place.

She doesn’t want to hide anymore. For years, she’s hidden away in a farce of a marriage until she lost herself. She’s been given a second chance now, an opportunity to do things right, and it’s time she accepts that nothing will be the same. The trouble is, she doesn't know what choices to make with the knowledge that some might be wrong but others might be right, because the life she's had hasn't much involved conscious choices on her part. These thoughts keep her from sleeping on the night before she leaves. Instead, she paces around her room and looks out over the land to the cottage---to Hermione’s cottage.

 _I’ll be here when you’re ready_.

Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, she puts on a robe over her thin nightgown and concentrates on the sidewalk that leads up to Hermione’s front door. There’s a crack of apparition, and she finds herself standing barefoot on the stone walkway. The door is open even at this late hour, and she can see a light down the hall. She squares her shoulders, goes up the stairs, and steps inside.

Hermione walks out of the room down the hall, her laboratory, Pansy remembers, and stares at her. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of shorts that show off her tan legs. Her hair is falling out of a clip that can’t keep it up on top of her head, and she looks surprised for a moment to find Pansy there. Since words always seem to mess things up, Pansy doesn’t give her a chance to speak.

Instead, she walks down the hallway until she reaches Hermione and kisses her desperately, knowing that this is one time she just has to face her fear. It’s a horrible kiss, too wet and her lips don’t hit right and their noses bump awkwardly. She pulls back and looks up at Hermione, lightly tracing her lips as she tries to find words to say what she needs to say.

“I know,” Hermione whispers before she tangles her fingers in Pansy’s hair and pulls her head back, kissing her back. This time, their lips meet and it’s just right. She parts her lips when Hermione drags her tongue along them and whimpers when Hermione slides her tongue into her mouth. It’s as if her control just snaps when their tongues curl around each other because Pansy starts touching and feeling and just surrenders completely.

It’s strange to feel breasts that aren’t her own. Hermione’s breasts are fuller and more plump, her nipples longer and so hard when Pansy pinches them. She pushes Hermione’s shirt and bra up, wanting to feel bare skin, and she whines when her hands are swatted away. Hermione chuckles and licks her neck, biting lightly as she slides Pansy’s robe and nightgown off until they pool at her feet. She shivers when Hermione moves her hands over her, touching and squeezing and driving her wild.

“More,” she demands lowly, trying once again to remove Hermione’s shirt. This time, it’s allowed and the shirt falls to the floor to join her nightgown. The bra soon follows, and Pansy finds herself staring at Hermione’s bare breasts. She reaches out to touch, watching Hermione’s face as she squeezes them experimentally, rubbing the nipples and adding more pressure until she’s rewarded with a husky moan. Pansy smirks and leans down to place an open mouthed kiss on one nipple, lightly stroking it with her tongue in the way she enjoys.

“Pansy,” Hermione groans, which tells her she’s doing well so far. It’s still odd to be touching another woman, especially when the woman is Hermione Granger, but it feels so right that she knows it can’t possibly be wrong. They kiss again, bare breasts rubbing together as they stumble up the stairs to Hermione's bedroom.

The bed is soft, and the cotton sheets stick to her sweaty skin as Hermione presses her back against them. Their bodies rub together, rocking against firm thighs, as they kiss and caress. She can’t remember being this aroused in ages, if ever, and each touch and kiss makes her gasp, moan, and whine. She’s never been vocal before, usually just lying there quietly while Theodore gets off, so this is so different for her in more ways than she can even think about right now.

Hermione’s wet and hot when Pansy touches her shyly. She’s not sure what to do exactly, but relying on instincts seems to be right, so she continues that here. She feels Hermione’s fingers slide inside her and follows the example, pressing two inside her lover. Hermione’s tighter than she imagined, squeezing her fingers as she moves them in and out slowly before speeding up. Pansy loves her breasts, kissing and licking them every chance she gets, and finds that kissing Hermione is just indescribable so she doesn’t even try to find words for it.

When she comes, Hermione kisses her neck and keeps moving her fingers in and out, drawing out the orgasm even as Pansy is shuddering and gasping for breath. It takes longer for Hermione, and she makes a soft sighing whine as she trembles in Pansy’s arms and finds release. They’re sweaty and naked and still haven’t said more than a half dozen words, but that doesn’t matter. They know what they want, what they need, and words aren’t necessary to convey that.

There’s something unbelievably sexy about Hermione’s face covered in wetness as she spreads Pansy’s legs and licks and teases until she’s begging and making demands that make Hermione laugh.

During the middle of the night, Pansy finally has the opportunity to kiss the freckles that cover Hermione’s belly and trail her tongue down until she nuzzles the patch of wild curls that cover wet glistening lips. Hermione’s hands tug on her hair as she shyly licks and teases until she grows bolder and focuses on causing a few begging demands of her own.

Pansy never realized that it was possible to come just from kissing and rocking slowly along a lover’s leg until she shudders against Hermione shortly before dawn.

The view of the sunrise from Hermione’s bedroom is beautiful. It’s even more so when Pansy sees it with Hermione’s arms around her and the soft breath warm against her neck while her lover sleeps.

********

The island is beautiful. Lush and tropic, it fills every fantasy of a paradise far away from prying eyes. Pansy finds it a haven for second chances and a place where she's been able to find out who she is, in a way. There is still more to learn, of course, but she no longer looks in the mirror and sees a complete stranger. Instead, she sees a woman of thirty-two, newly divorced, wealthy, reasonably pretty, and alive in a way that she hasn't been since she was a teenager. An unknown future awaits her, waiting for her to make choices and probably make mistakes but hopefully to learn from them, too.

She stands on the balcony to have one last look at the island that has been her shelter in a storm of media coverage and emotional upheaval. Inside, the room is in perfect order, waiting for its next occupant as if she hadn't spent two weeks of her life here at all. Her suitcases are packed and waiting for her by the door, but she lingers outside, needing this moment before she returns to the reality of a divorce and moving on with her life.

A soft breeze blows in from the ocean, and she swears she can smell cinnamon and vanilla and Hermione. She closes her eyes and remembers soft skin, wet tongues, gentle kisses, and quiet moans. Her skin still feels sensitive and she's sore between her legs from a night of whatever one would call what she and Hermione did. It wasn't making love but calling it just sex cheapens it, so she decides it was just _them_ and leaves it at that. Her hair is still damp from the shower they shared after breakfast, before she had to come back to the hotel to pack. There are no false promises or mentions of the future from either of them, which makes saying goodbye a little easier.

When she opens her eyes, seeking out the cottage by the sea, she smiles when she notices the sun glistening off the open window upstairs. "Thank you," she murmurs, not sure if she's thanking the island or Hermione or even Fleur for sending her there. Perhaps it's all of them. After one last look and soft sigh, she turns and shrinks her luggage, putting it into her pocket before she leaves the room.

The portkey is waiting to take her back to civilization, back to a life that doesn't fit her anymore, and she knows it's necessary because one must always clean up one's mistakes. There are obligations awaiting her, parties to attend and plans to make, plus an image to rebuild after the damage that Theodore has done. She also has more to discover about herself and needs to know those answers before she'll ever be ready for more. When she is ready, though, she'll return to this island; not to hide but to really and truly _live_. Maybe it won't take her so long, she thinks as she looks at the portkey and prepares to return. Hermione will still be here, after all, and the door's always open.

End


End file.
